


A Stranger in My House

by GrayRainbows



Category: General Hospital
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-06
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:09:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrayRainbows/pseuds/GrayRainbows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year of Fluke - missing moments, etc. . includes Q's and Spencers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> The story title is taken from a song of the same name, by Tamia. It is heartbreakingly perfect, for the Fluke situation. (it can be heard on Youtube.)
> 
> Further notes will be at the end, because I believe too much preliminary talk spoils a story.

Prologue

November, 2015

 

Frost encased windows, and covered the ground, silencing the world beyond the stately, solid eighteenth-century house that had been in the Morgan family for generations. It was now permanent home base to the pair of seasoned travelers, recently returned to England. Trans-Atlantic telephone calls had been made and received from sons and daughter, and visits promised, for the spring. 

Twelve mellow chimes signaled midnight, a new day, and the lateness of the hour. Jet lag was responsible for the irregular time for a shared meal, but it was not an uncommon practice. Travel across time zones and country borders was a common element of their life, both for business and plesure, and even now, luggage was deposited by the foot of the stairs and in the front parlor. The year had seen them walk Hawaiian soil, journey to Spain, and their annual tradition was to pass an unacknowledged Christmas, in Prague.

But Christmas was weeks away. For the present, they were at home, and enveloped in a sense of peace and well-being. A dark oak dining table, flanked by high-backed chairs, was laid with crystal and polished antique silver that gleamed in flickering candle glow.

"This is like something I'm dreaming." she said, glancing around with satisfaction at the setting she had created.

"You're my dream." he rejoined, reaching to cover her hand with his.

"No cheese with this meal, please." she rolled her eyes, but smiled in acknowledgement, nonetheless. "Well, what do you think? I hope it's an improvement over last year's."

"Now this is what I call a feast, fit for a king—or a Quartermaine. We'll be eating this for a week."

"And you thought I wasn't capable of making so much as a pot of coffee."

"I stand corrected. And your coffee is strong enough to float an egg."

"I taught myself to cook, I think, out of a last grasp at fairytale domesticity, that last year I was married to Ashton. Or maybe it was just boredom."

"I'm not surprised." 

Her companion lifted a large silver spoon, and moved to serve the food.

"Hold it!"

"Surely, you meant us to eat it, not just to admire your handiwork." he quipped, amused.

"Yes, but you know the rule. First we sing, then we eat."

"It's only the two of us, Tracy."

"Holidays are meaningless, without tradition. I'm no Kay Starr, but I'll do my best." she began, self-conscious, but determined.

The hymn finished, she looked across at Luke, her Luke, she reminded herself. When happiness seemed too redolent, panic invariably seized its edges. Just a second, a trick of light—or the lack of light, made her heart freeze and falter.   
Displacement of the air current, a wayward memory, a shadow reflected in glass, and some uninvited entity stirred, a ghost floated into the room and made of them a threesome.

Forgiveness and time had not vanquished the unwholesome element that had touched their life; they could not outrun it. Love could not stand as a buffer against the resurgence of a fear that remained present, on some subterranean level of consciousness. Another fear tainted moments, unexpectedly, fear that they would never be free, fear that they would never forget, that there was no place to which they might travel that would be far enough to distance them from the blight of that single, devilish deception.

She was now the most careful observer; nothing, now, went unnoticed. Throughout the meal, Luke's eyes strayed from her to the corners of the room, seeking reassurance.

"I know you're hiding something. What is it?"

He stepped across to the sideboard, and plucked a letter from behind the candelabra.

"It's from Dante. Someone's found... him. The remains. Don't be alarmed. No one knows. But they've apparently turned up some clues to his identity."

He proffered the creased envelope. If Luke was reluctant to do so, Tracy didn't detect it. 

"How long have you been holding onto that?"

He shrugged.

"Have you opened it?"

"No."

She regarded the paper for a long moment, as she might eye with suspicion a tempting vial of poison. She shuddered, and clasped her hands together.

"What the mind doesn't know, the heart doesn't grieve over. Maybe. I hope."

Luke broke eye contact and looked away.

"Throw it into the fire."

"I think that's best." he agreed. "Anything we need to know about him, you already know."

"But you don't."

Luke lit a cigar, settled into his favorite chair, and watched Tracy, waiting with patience for her next words. 

"I'm sorry." she said softly. "It's a burden I never planned to share. But I think," she began with a gusty sigh. "I have to talk now. I'm ready to tell you... everything."


	2. The Missing

The Missing

January, 2014

 

A sharp rapping brought Lulu out of a daydream, and she braced herself, as she went to the door.

"Where's the fire? Ah, it's you. I should have recognized your knock."

Tracy bustled in, dropping gloves and jacket on a chair, and a bakery bag on the table. Without preamble, she got right down to the reason for her visit, with no tedious how-are-you's to bypass or lie about, for the sake of politeness. The necessity of doing so with people who knew you well, Tracy thought, was, for separate reasons, almost as irritating as engaging with total strangers in banal conversation about the weather.

"You've got snow in your hair. Come in, quick! Isn't it freezing, out there?"

"Lulu, have you, uh, spoken to Bobbie, lately?"

"No, why? Oh, I'm guessing you haven't heard from Dad."

"No," Tracy admitted, dejectedly. "I haven't. I wish I could believe that he's simply off somewhere, having another mortality drama, but I don't really think so."

"I don't think he'd go off again, so soon, right before Valentine's day. He told me he had something special planned, for the two of you. I just don't think he meant to leave."

"Neither do I, Lulu. I've tried to get help, and it was an egregious waste of my valuable time. Nothing that should be taken seriously by the law ever is! I wonder what planet Port Charles is on, sometimes! If the PCPD used their brains for anything but inventing lies and cover-ups, they might actually solve a case, now and then."

Lulu dropped a coffee pod in the new machine that had been a Christmas gift, and presently placed a steaming, frothy, vanilla-scented cup in front of Tracy.

"You do remember that you're talking about my husband." said Lulu.

"Your husband's employer. There's a difference. Mostly, I'm talking about Anna Devane. You should have heard what she told me!" Tracy ranted, effectively mimicking Anna's accent, with her next words. "Relationships are fragile. Doubt is  
there from day one, and all it takes is someone to voice the doubt. You see? You're already wondering, and you were so sure a second ago. But don't worry, Tracy, Luke will turn up. He always does."

"She said that to you?"

"The woman is so damned smug! And disingenuous. I never believe a word that comes out of her mouth. Luke's esteem for Anna Devane has always been misguided. She possesses no empathy to speak of, is slim of insight, has slim intelligence. I ask you, how many cases does she actually close?" 

Lulu smiled, waiting for Tracy's tirade to wind down.

"For what it's worth, Tracy, I never thought Anna and Dad were a good match."

"Thank you for that. I'm sure that's not what you said to your father, at the time. But mercifully, that was a short-lived phase. And," she sighed. "it isn't as if I haven't had my own unfortunate... lapses in judgment."

"I'm not going to tell you that you shouldn't care about my dad."

"Thank you, because I do, no matter how many people tell me I shouldn't."

"Who says that?"

"Oh, Monica believes I must have done something to drive Luke away. Again. Because, after all, he's a man, and they require careful handling, or they take fright, like skittish horses, and gallop off into the dusty distance. Your father will do that, no matter how well he's treated."

"He'll come back, Tracy."

Luke was as human as anybody, and growing older. One of these days, he would be unlucky, or careless, or his bad habits would get the best of him and his body betray him, and he just wouldn't come home. But Tracy wouldn't say this to Lulu, who was young, and should retain any optimism for which her nature allowed. Lulu had endured enough loss, this last year, and didn't need to worry about another one that hadn't yet been confirmed. That was Tracy's fear, to live with, alone.

"What are you doing?" she asked, becoming aware that Lulu's mind was on something else, entirely.

"Just looking at this picture of Connie... Georgie," Lulu corrected herself. Her effort at a breezy attitude failed, utterly. "Look at her. She's happy."

"Mmm." Tracy barely glanced at the photograph Lulu passed to her, just enough to make the pretense of polite interest.

It wouldn't do to remain attached to a child that would never again be part of their lives. Lulu had to see that. Tracy didn't want to inflict a deeper wound, in an attempt to help Lulu, but someone had to take the tough position, to speak common sense.

"She's growing up, so fast."

"Lulu," Tracy began, wearily, pragmatically brisk, but Lulu cut her off.

"Maxie's going to be allowed to see her daughter, any time now, and I need to be able to handle this."

"I didn't think you were still on speaking terms with that girl. If so, you shouldn't be!"

"Never mind about Maxie. It's not only the absence of Georgie that breaks my heart, it's all babies. All mothers and babies I see. They're everywhere! It's so unfair."

"Yes. It's unfair." Tracy affirmed, remembering long ago, the melancholy that had followed her own termination procedure. The lingering sadness was the same, if not the circumstances, for Lulu had not chosen this outcome.

During the black days after Lulu and Dante had been forced to give up little Connie, Tracy had ached for Lulu, as deeply as if Lulu was her own daughter, grieving. She understood that overcoming the loss of Connie was just a portion of Lulu's pain.

Tracy had mopped up many a tear, after their days in court. Lulu's own abortion had been publicly dredged up, causing needless guilt, and the perceived betrayal by Dante had ensured a bleak winter.

When the invitation to Thanksgiving pizza was declined, Tracy spent the next weeks trying to entice her out for lunch, for Christmas shopping as therapy, and as distraction. But her stepdaughter wasn't easily distracted. When she spoke to Tracy, Lulu's conversation was full of desperation, and rather incomprehensible talk of monthly cycles, injections and frozen embryos.

Embryos! The very word embarrassed Tracy, and made her squeamish. Why on God's green earth would anyone steal such a thing, and how could it be stolen? Tracy didn't ask, and didn't want to know.

She lingered on the fringes, seeking to offer comfort. The girl had an abundance of mothers to call upon for support, however, and that should be a blessing. Laura, from afar, as Lulu's flesh and blood, was naturally the one Lulu should turn to, and Laura wasn't an influence Tracy wished to compete with. In addition, Olivia Falconeri was a constant presence at the loft, a born nurturer whose effusiveness made Tracy's empathetic expressions seem pathetically weak and false, by comparison (even to Tracy herself, though she knew her own sincerity.)

"No one understands how painful this is. Having a baby is all I think about, it's the only thing in life I want."

So many visits had degenerated into this sort of talk. Tracy felt powerless, unable to offer anything of value that wouldn't come across as false hope or condescension.

Lulu was only twenty-five, with so much life ahead, so much of herself and her marriage yet to explore and embrace, for that was what one had, before and after children. She had to begin to engage in life as it was, rather than as she envisioned it should be. To do so was a choice, and surely the better and wiser option than choosing perpetual sorrow.

"At least Dante and I used to be in this, together, but now... now there's Ben-"

Lulu reeled off a mystifying series of facts and twists, in an increasingly complicated saga.

"And of course Olivia will be over the moon, once we tell her about her new grandson."

Lulu blotted at her moist eyes.

"Right. You wouldn't rather call Dante's mother?"

"No, she'd just come over and feed me." Lulu sniffled, trying to laugh. "I just cry and gain ten pounds, every time I see her."

"Too much kindness can often be a hindrance to healing." said Tracy.

"I don't need sympathy, I need clarity. I need honesty, even if it's harsh."

"And for that, little Lulu, you call me."

"Tracy, I didn't mean-"

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm aware of my reputation." Tracy waved off the apology. "Have you talked to your mother, about this?"

"Yes, we speak every week. She doesn't know when she'll come back to the states."

"She's still well, isn't she??"

"She says so. She's busy, talking of opening a restaurant, of all things. Do you think Paris is ready for Grandma Leslie's home cooking?" 

"Good Lord." Tracy laughed. "Surely, you're joking."

"Yeah. But Mom's taken an interest in gourmet cooking."

"Fascinating."

"You know, my parents are here for the big events, the crazy kidnappings, and all of that, but it's the day to day stuff I miss. That's when life happens."

"I know."

"Tracy, for a long time now, you've been here for me when neither of my parents were around. I just want to say how much that means to me."

"Duly noted." Tracy said, with a self-deprecating gesture and a quick smile.

"My mom... well, she was a wonderful mother, when she was here. But she was catatonic for most of my childhood, and then when she did wake up, she had to be protected, and then she flew off to France. And sometimes I just feel... so angry with her! I know I shouldn't-"

"There are no "shouldn'ts" when it comes to feelings." Tracy said. "The bond you have with your mother will always exist. You love Laura, deeply, that will never change."

"No."

"My mother was an angel, too, you know."

Lulu nodded.

"Even our beloved mothers can inadvertently hurt us. Mine was one of the most admired women in Port Charles, and she abandoned me, a time or two. I was devastated. Unfortunately, I know what you're going through. You have a right to feel hurt."

"When will I stop feeling short-changed?"

"I can't tell you that. Maybe your focus changes, when you have your own child--and you will have one of your own, Lulu, I do believe that."

"I hope you're right, Tracy."

"I am always right."

Lulu smiled, weakly trying to rally.

"Yes, of course you are."

"Now, I owe Skittles a couple of hours of a good gallop, in the fresh air. After I stop by the police station, again, and rattle some chains, I'll have the rest of the afternoon free. Why don't you come with me?"

"Maybe some other time. I'm meeting Dante and his new partner, Nathan, for lunch. After that, Dante and I really need to talk about Ben."

"Keep me posted."

"I will." Lulu followed Tracy to the door, and handed over Tracy's outdoor gear, as she reached for her own.

"That's Dad's leather jacket, isn't it?"

Tracy nodded, and turned swiftly away. Lulu gave her a quick squeeze.

"Oh, Tracy. He'll be home, soon. I promise."


	3. Alone

Alone

February, 2014

 

Tracy was alone, there was no uncertainty, no turmoil, only herself and the strawberry roan, under a blue sky, and endless peace. Skittles greeted her with a friendly whinny. He lowered his head to nuzzle her jacket, his ears laid forward. She stroked his neck, and spoke quietly to this spirited equine who would do as she bid.

The day was frosty, and the straps almost too stiff to bend, but she readied the eager horse for their jaunt. Sitting well down in the saddle, she started him in a trot, then gave the signal that spurred his movements into a canter.

As a child, Tracy had learned to ride over one long summer in England, with her Morgan cousins. Back home in New York, due to some punishment for a childish infraction she could no longer recall, Edward had sold the first Skittles, and so Tracy had ridden at summer camps. Since that time, she had rarely been on horseback. As an adult, handling a horse was a very different experience. Lessons had been necessary, she decided, after Skittles had attempted to scrape her off his back, on a tree limb. It hadn't diminished her admiration for him, or for the effort and sentiment that had brought him to her. This beautiful creature had been Luke's birthday gift to her, two years before, a solace, during the horrendous difficulties with Anthony Zacchara. 

Calm, self-possession was restored. The rush of movement freed her mind, allowed her to focus on just this moment. Tension lifted, just a bit, with the motion and rhythm of hoof beats, as the wind fanned her hair and Skittles' light-colored mane. She risked taking him for a few jumps, knowing she couldn't afford an injury and should proceed with greater caution, but unable to resist the sense of invincibility, and the joy of a brisk ride in wintry air.

It was just like Luke, to give her this gift of the perpetual rush, a way to get her blood moving, to blow the cobwebs away. She had come out to get her mind off of him, but he was ever-present, in her thoughts.

Life without Luke was cold and flat. This was not a new revelation, but every time she endured it, it became harder to bear his absence. Another day had passed, with no clue to his whereabouts, only more questions, only more doubts. Why would he walk out, on that particular January morning? They hadn't argued; he had seemed content to go on as they were. They had just returned from a week skiing, in Stowe, and had even talked of summer travel plans. She hadn't sensed any restlessness in him, whatsoever.

If Luke had in fact planned something for Valentine's Day, as Lulu said, then he had indeed turned over a new leaf. Tracy was heartened by this thought, and amused. Luke marked birthdays, anniversaries, days that were personally meaningful. He eschewed mass-celebrated holidays that required a prescribed set of actions and reactions.

Apparently, it was too much to expect, to be granted some peace, for longer than a month. In fact she'd had two months of bliss, or as near as Tracy's life ever got to such a state. She didn't trust bliss--or Luke didn't. Or perhaps, once again, he hadn't left Port Charles of his own volition. This was at the heart of her deepest fear, that foul play, at the hands of Helena's camp of revenge-seeking goons, was involved in this disappearance. Some part of Luke, she believed, invited the everlasting Cassadine feud as an excuse to evade responsibility, and so panic and blame went hand-in-hand, a constant, vexing dilemma.

Tracy worked, as usual, practically living at ELQ, staying late and arriving early, taking on tasks she usually delegated to others. The essential fiber in her character was strength, and it served her well. She had had so much practice, that the ability to function and to compartmentalize her life--a skill she had learned early on--was second nature. She marveled that her intricate body machine should function smoothly, with so little of her personal attention given. 

She postponed a business trip, and declined an invitation to a house party over a weekend in Connecticut. She wouldn't permit her life to grind to a halt, but she needed to stay close to home, just in case...

Monica passed by the den in the middle of the night, and found Tracy hunched over, asleep over her papers, her reading glasses askew on the cushion beside her. She gently touched Tracy's shoulder.

"Tracy, go upstairs. Go to bed."

It took a moment to rouse Tracy. She rose slowly, blinking, confused.

"What day is it? What time is it?"

"Monday, early. I've just come in from the hospital. You're shattered. Go up and sleep for a couple of hours."

She began to head for the stairs.

The day ahead was an important one. There was a board meeting, bringing with it the usual headaches. Tracy's people were well prepared, but she would have to dig deep to perform well on so little sleep. She was already exhausted from the previous week of late nights.

"I can't sleep, now, I have to light a fire under the police. I have to do it, today."

"Police?"

"Yeah, so you might want to warn AJ to go into hiding." she said with sarcastic relish, seeing Monica's alarm. "No, Monica, it's nothing for you to concern yourself with."

"Oh, it's about Luke, then."

"Yeah, I have a strange compulsion to give a damn, when my... husband goes missing!"

"Unfortunately for you, his reputation works against him, and I think when it comes to Luke, Anna Devane knows a thing or two."

"At the most." said Tracy, caustically.

Monica gave her a brief, pitying look.

"I know the two of you thrive on chaos--or Luke does--but you can't keep it up, pushing yourself, like this, until he comes home."

"Why does EVERYONE think they know Luke better than I do?" Tracy rejoined, exasperated, ignoring Monica's concern and her point. "I don't see him with blinders on; never have. Something IS wrong, and when I find out what it is, and where Luke is, you and Anna Devane and everyone else will be eating crow pie, for an eternity."

"I didn't think it was possible, but you are more insufferable now than you are when he's here, and you're fighting."

Tracy wished she wasn't such a fatalist, that she could share the optimism, about Luke's imminent return, that everyone around her seemed to have. But Lulu was right, life was unfair. Anyone breathing knew that, and yet it was difficult to accept, at any stage. It took a great deal of Tracy's willpower to do anything but rage through her days, rage at the unfairness of being denied the simple companionship she craved.

Tracy had reached the limit of her tolerance for the purgatory that was Luke's absence. It was like a death, sudden, jarring. He was gone, the life she loved was gone, what remained was diminished. But she was not expected to grieve; no one recognized her loss as important or the permanent thing it might very well be.

She had been called to the Metro Court, "as a courtesy," to clear Luke's belongings from the room he had occupied. Sifting through pockets and suitcase, she had found nothing of use. She took everything home.

Olivia Falconeri had apologized, but Carly had insisted that it had to be dealt with, right away.

"He wasn't paying for this room." said Carly.

Tracy snapped her card down on the desk.

"I can't just store his things, and I can't hold a vacant room, okay?"

"You have such a heart. Careful, someone might think you cared about your family. Thanks so much for asking, no, there have been no leads on your uncle."

"Hey, I have been through hell."

"And Luke was as concerned as anybody, when you were missing."

Tracy lay in bed, bathed in the pale light of the TV. Grainy black and white images filled the screen. Lush music and plummy voices droned, at low volume. She thought of it as early '60s comfort TV, but despite its suspense plot, the program wasn't helping her sleep, or holding her attention. Neither were crossword puzzles and the Ruth Rendell novel on her bedside table. They were temporary evening distractions, at best.

The ruling law was simple—accident. The throw of dice, the turning of a card. She had allowed herself to be duped by her own imagination, when she foolishly envisioned herself and Luke living a harmonious future. She could not regulate life and its chances. It was more comfortable not to love; she could get on with her work, which was her life, if she wasn't bothered by love, by keeping it, losing it, or wanting it.

She should have given him his walking papers much sooner. This time, Luke had stayed all of five minutes, apparently all the time he could bear to dedicate to one place and to keeping a promise, she thought, bitterly. It was easier to cope with what might prove to be misdirected anger, than worry over what might have befallen him. The thought of losing him for good was untenable. She lived for the day he returned, and that was nothing to live for; his presence wasn't a guarantee that he would stay. 

She had never expected to know love, much less the lasting kind, with her temperament and in this stage of her life. Or rather, love had conned its way into her heart, and that was about typical, for a Quartermaine--and for a Spencer, too. Even now, after a decade and innumerable disappointments, she marveled at the depth of the emotions it engendered, uneasy with the vulnerability of surrendering the territory of herself, but time and again, doing so. She wore her heart on her sleeve, more readily now than in the past. She had been swept up in the intoxication of an unsought, late-blooming romance, despite innate cynicism, a cynicism Luke was so proud they shared in common. 

Their lack of a conventional beginning had made it possible, and over time, they had grown together, and love had quietly become a reality. Amid all the one-upsmanship, the games, the schemes, lust, then love had stolen through barriers, his and hers. Luke had carved out a permanent and solid place in her world. It was the longest marriage she had ever sustained, and the best, for there had been time enough to cultivate durable contentment and boredom, tedium and joy, in equal measures.

She wanted to revel again in the sheer mundane comforts of having a long-term partner, going together to social occasions, expecting they would be home together, most evenings, talking over a glass of wine of all the things--be they thoughts or actual events, important or trivial, that had happened through the day. Knowing someone was always on her side, even when she was wrong, was a priceless luxury.

She could lie alone and conjure Luke in thought, see him standing in the doorway, and feel him holding her. In her private world of daydream no one could judge, scold, gloat over the misfortune she kept clinging to, as love.

"You are my wife. I'm married to you because I can't imagine a better partner in this life. I give you my word; I will always come back to you." 

Tracy woke, unwillingly, from the half dream, half memory that had eased her through another night of light, uneasy sleep. Morning light touched her eyes, but did not warm her. She stretched, reaching, fingertips grazing nothing but crisp, high thread-count percale. No good morning kiss, no touch in return, no promise that the day was worthy of embracing.

Patience had soured to dread. The time period required by law to initiate a search had now passed. They had been some of the longest hours she'd lived, a full forty-eight hours, waiting, dread burgeoning like an illness.

She prayed. Humiliating, that gut-deep worry made one pray to a God one only halfheartedly believed in. In the quiet moments, between work responsibilities and the activities she forced herself to undertake, to keep her mind occupied, in her thoughts she pleaded, promised--the same weighty promises she remembered making during the epidemic of 2006, the Metro Court hostage crisis of 2007, and each time Laura's name was mentioned.

Another week passed, and still, no money had been ciphoned from her accounts, and she began to panic in earnest, her whole self tied in knots of anxiety. She was not one to have premonitions, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Luke was about to die, and that she was powerless to prevent it. 

And then the call came. Anna had a lead on Luke!

Carly had remembered seeing him in the boathouse, being dragged away by two men... to Miscavige.


	4. Invasion

Invasion

March, 2014

 

"Mr. Luke! Nice to see you! We were all so worried." gushed Alice.

"If that isn't the understatement of the year." Tracy put in, wryly. "Alice, he'll be staying, for...oh, awhile. So have Cook make the necessary changes to the menus."

"Right away, Miss Tracy. Cook II is a pro, with the heart-healthy dinners."

Alice lingered in the den, fussing over Luke, until Tracy directed her to make their drinks.

"No Scotch for him," Tracy directed.

"She's right," confirmed Monica. "Those drugs need time to leave your system."

"God, I need this." Tracy exclaimed, accepting a perfectly made martini with a lemon twist. 

"Rough time for you, as well?" asked Luke.

"I spent the entire afternoon with Lucy Coe. Need I say more?" she chortled. "After listening to Lucy's flapping and twittering, I have the headache of the century!"

"Oh, how you suffer!" put in Monica, sardonically, as she sipped her tea.

"No doubt Scott Baldwin will wish he was back in Miscavige Institute, once he's been caught up in the clutches of hurricane Lucy."

The room grew quiet as its occupants settled in for the evening.

"Why are all of you staring?" asked Luke, fidgeting with his coffee mug.

"No reason." rejoined Monica, dismissively.

"It's just...so good to have you home." stammered Alice.

"Something's different." stated Tracy, abruptly, studying Luke with sharp, critical eyes. "No glib comment, about Baldwin? And...I think you lost some weight, at that place."

"A drugged man doesn't need much in the way of feeding." Luke observed, bitterly.

After rapidly downing his coffee, citing the lateness of the hour, Luke excused himself, he said, to make a phone call and to shower.

Tracy went upstairs, arranged herself for sleep, and picked up a book. She dozed, waiting, wondering what could be keeping Luke. 

He pushed her door open quietly, furtively, and entered only after she called to him.

"Were you taking a scenic tour of the house? Monica hasn't redecorated, since you were last here."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

"How was Lulu?"

"Lulu?" he parroted, confused.

"I thought you were going to call her."

"I was hoping you'd do that for me, this once. Tonight, I'm just too tired to play a game of twenty questions with my daughter." he explained.

"I understand."

When he finally joined her, it was without removing his undershirt, although the room wasn't cold. He drew the curtains closed, and switched off the bedside lamp.

"Don't. You know I like to see you. I've missed you."

"Tracy, I've lived with lights on, twenty-four-seven, for the past month. Grant me a little peace and darkness."

"Of course. Whatever you need." she whispered. "Come here. Let Mama make it up to you."

She pulled him into her arms, eagerly pressing her lips to his, seeking for the spark that was always between them.

"I'm so glad you're home." she sighed. "So glad."

"Sweet." he whispered back.

She sensed uncertainty in his manner, a puzzling hesitation, but after what he'd been through, it might take him a few days to regain his equilibrium.

"Mmm, you smell good." she said, soothed by the familiar fragrance of his aftershave. She snuggled closer, needing to give and receive just a little contact before sleep, combing her hands through his hair, touching his face. She sighed in contentment as he finally touched her through the filmy fabric that covered her.

"Yes." she whispered. "Please."

He moved aside the narrow satin straps, and planted tentative kisses. His hands and then his mouth fastened onto her breast. She waited, wondering why, suddenly, the sweet shivery anticipation diminished. She felt as though her flesh was a mound of overworked dough, kneaded by an inexperienced baker. Striving to mask her impatience, she finally halted him.

"Other one's more sensitive. Did you forget?" she chided, her tone light.

"How could I forget anything about this scrumptious body of yours?"

"Hmm. Luke, you've been through a terrible ordeal." she said, carefully. "It's been a long few weeks, for us both. There's no rush. Maybe what we really need is just to sleep, tonight."

"Thank you. Have I told you how wonderful you are?"

Her responding laugh was a sensuous sound, deep in her throat.

"Oh, I'd rather you show me, tomorrow. I will insist."

He silenced her, briefly, with a kiss, punctuating his next words with more.

"You demanding...irresistible...woman."

"You've been pretty remarkable yourself, Luke, ever since we came back from Cassadine Island, in November."

"Is that a fact?"

"Better than it's ever been." she whispered, letting her hand drift down his chest. He caught her fingers, giving them a gentle squeeze, and another kiss--rather too chaste, for her liking.

"Mmm." he acknowledged. "You'll have to remind me. Just rest now, sugar."

They gave into exhaustion and fell asleep, their bodies entwined. But when Tracy woke, some hours later, it was to find herself chilly and without cover, and Luke at the far edge of the king-size bed, tossing, restlessly, muttering unintelligible words under his breath.

The man usually slept as soundly as a rock, snoring, inert, and so even in his dreams, Luke was never far from sheltering Tracy. He was the only man in whose arms she'd ever been able to fall asleep. But now... something fundamental had altered, though the awareness of it would dawn too slowly to change the course of the events that were fated.

Her unease, dismissed in the safety of the night, revived by day, and over the following weeks. She observed dozens of small things that other people deemed as irregular habits and behavior, but she decided they were insignificant details to be dismissed, easily explained away.

He took sugar in his coffee, Alice noticed. He had no inclination to smoke cigars.

He no longer listened to jazz or those insipid 60s tunes he was so fond of; there was no music, no singing, whistling, and a noticeable absence of Luke's playful side. His charisma had been dulled.

Lulu commented that her father had not visited the haunted Star, or Bobbie, since his return, in late February.

Luke was having memory lapses, and lapses in judgment. He hadn't seemed to remember how important Edward's portrait was, when he'd made the daft, inconsiderate suggestion of removing it from the office at ELQ.

Luke had developed a new, astonishing interest in ELQ, itself, and in working there. Furthermore, he had been surprisingly well-behaved, lately, he hadn't "borrowed" money from her personal account.

The unexpected marriage proposal blindsided her. She had the uneasy feeling it was done to distract her, but from what, she couldn't guess. All of it seemed just a bit sudden, given their recent conversations. Maybe, she thought wryly, coming up with no other solution to the mystery of his change of heart, the toxin Jerry Jacks put in the Port Charles water supply two years before had a delayed side effect action!

Yet, too much time had been squandered, this year--and over the course of all of their years together. Despite Tracy's reservations, she accepted that Luke had been transformed by the events of the last year, and she accepted the engagement ring. 

She had been mystified, but quietly overjoyed that Luke wanted to make their relationship official, again. They were together, already committed to each other, free to flourish and to love without restraint. Marriage was the next natural step, putting right the grievous wrong that had been their divorce. There was no more ambivalence. He was persuasive, and she had been happy--and happiness, for a Quartermaine, was never an emotion to be taken for granted--or one to be fully trusted.

Despite his professed contentment, Luke wasn't sleeping soundly, or much. He was watchful, restless, wired.

She was given to understand that in Miscavige, he had existed in a drugged stupor. This opposite effect could be medical; if not, then something deeply troubled him. Tracy had spoken to everyone who knew anything about Miscavige, Scott Baldwin, and even Kevin Collins, but an aversion to sharing a private matter and confiding her concerns overtook her, and she decided that the professionals couldn't help.

The last time Luke's family tried to involve him in a process of therapy, it had backfired, terribly. The rift between Luke and his children had been slow to mend and to forget. Luke had rejected all of them, and abandoned Tracy. Their divorce was a heartache she still felt, to this day, as an old breakage in her bones, lodged in her very foundation, that would never fully heal. She would not make the mistake again, of ignoring her misgivings and allowing herself to be persuaded into a coarse of action she doubted. If Luke needed help, it would be up to her to provide it, in her own way.

He confided nothing, but frequently disappeared on unexplained errands. Even late at night, he whispered covertly into his cell phone, and brushed off her inquiries--and Monica's--with insufficient answers.

"I think I overheard him talking to someone called "Julian."" Monica revealed in an undertone, contriving to waylay Tracy in the rose garden.

"Julian? We don't know any such person."

"If Luke needs a doctor, I'm perfectly willing to examine him."

"If he needs a doctor, he'd tell me. Mind your own business, Monica." Tracy snapped, irritated that Monica had given her something more to worry about.

Monica's head went up, huffily.

"I'm not interested in other people's conversations, Tracy, even though there might be some in this house who are."

So, Monica, too had noticed how watchful Luke had become. Unwilling to share her half-formed anxieties with anyone, Tracy let her sister-in-law walk away. 

There was something off-kilter that Tracy couldn't put her finger on. Some of what came out of Luke's mouth was beyond explanation. It was at its worst when he'd been away on one of his mysterious outings, missing dinners, disappearing sometimes for an entire evening.

"Visiting an old friend." he said once, fleetingly amused by some private joke. When she'd badgered him, demanding the identity of this "friend," he had walked out on her, for a day and a half.

Time would bring improvement, she was convinced of it.

Tracy was busy, and distracted. ELQ was courting what could be a profitable new alliance, and as its CEO, she had reports to study and present, strategy to plan. She had a full schedule, and a shareholders' meeting coming up.

"Oh, here you are. I tried to reach you, this afternoon, Luke."

Hastily, he closed the laptop, and turned his attention to her.

"Come in, sit down, and tell me all about your day. What's put such a sparkle in those lovely blue eyes?"

"You may well ask." replied Tracy, her joy contagious. "Make me a drink and let me tell you."

After bestowing a quick kiss, and lifting her hand to admire the ring he'd put there, he did as he was bid.

"Ooh, I love you in that shirt, Husband. It brings out your eyes."

"Hey, now, let's not get distracted." he said, handing her a chilled red glass.

"Mmm. Perfect. Well, due to my hard work, ELQ is about to land a very profitable fish." she sang.

"What sort?"

"If I play my cards right, we have the chance to gain a partnership with quite a significant midwest company. I had a very informative, productive lunch with one of its owners."

"Who is?"

"A woman from Newman-Chancellor Industries--but you wouldn't necessarily know of it."

"But I do know about fishing, and cards." he quipped.

"Which is why I have doubts about you working at ELQ. The Haunted Star is better suited to your particular talents." she gestured to forestall his reply. "Anyway, I plan to meet with Ms. Abbott, again, over the summer."

When she stepped past him to refill her drink, he gave her a friendly pat on the behind.

"Not bad, for an afternoon's work. This, and a quarter of a mill, on the waterfront project. With you in the lead, it will be a definite success."

"I hope so." Her tone became abstracted, as her focus shifted.

"Luke, I called you three times, today." Tracy glanced around the den and at the desk where a thick portfolio lay. "Where were you? I asked my secretary-"

"Lainey." said Luke.

Tracy narrowed her eyes.

"Her name is Ivy--not that it matters. I had her send over these papers for you to review. If you're going to work at my company, you need to understand the basics of our current projects."

"I read every page, sweetheart. I'm ready for the quiz."

"That isn't necessary." she said, only slightly mollified. "This is business, Luke, not an optional pastime you can drop, when you get bored. Casual attendance isn't going to cut it. Just be here, when I call you, otherwise, I can't count on you, as part of my team."

"I understand."

"We've never been joined at the hip. You're the one who wanted to work at ELQ, so we could spend more time together."

"And I do want that, Tracy."

She sifted through the mail Alice had piled on the desk and left for her attention, or Monica's.

"There's something from the hospital, addressed to you." Luke said.

"Seeking donations, no doubt. Without Quartermaine funds, General Hospital wouldn't have a nurses' ball, or even be able to keep its doors open, and... Hmm, here's an invitation from Nikolas Cassadine."

"Don't tell me you want to visit that gloomy pile of rocks that the pompous prince calls home."

"We're invited to his engagement party, apparently." she tapped the envelopes against the edge of the desk, and dropped them back into a tidy stack. "Luke, WE should talk about a date."

"A date?"

"For OUR wedding." replied Tracy, stressing her annoyance at his obtuseness. "The wedding, Luke. Where ARE you?"

"Of course, the joyous nuptial event. Any date you want, sweetheart, as long as it's soon."

Had he considered the May date of their first wedding? It was coming up very soon, and she waited for him to mention it, and was irrationally disappointed when he didn't.

"Maybe, oh, I don't know, say the twenty-first of December." she said pointedly, testing him.

He mixed himself another Mimosa, and glanced at her, quizzically.

"That's not soon."

Could this stare of incomprehension be from the same man who told her, with such sincerity, that he believed he was her soul mate, only four short months before?

She felt her throat constrict. She shouldn't have named that date--an anniversary about which so much still lay unresolved. He acted as though he didn't recall its significance. If nothing else, the 21st should ring a damned gong-sized bell in his brain as the date of his beloved Laura's birthday!

"Why do you look like you're about to clobber me, with a vase?"

Tracy put her goblet down hard on the table, preparatory to stalking out of the room.

"One day soon, you will burn your last bridge with me. And when you do, I hope you're standing right in the middle of it!"

But by the time he crept into their bed, late that night, her annoyance had blown over.

"You're still awake?" he asked, startled when she turned over and spoke to him.

"I waited for you." she said softly. "I've missed you, Luke. I-I need you."

"Tracy-"

"I was lying here, thinking about everything you might do, when you came to me." She said silkily, her voice low and husky, as she kissed his ear and leaned up to put her arms around him. "It was sweet as sin."

She pulled at the buttons on his shirt.

"Take it off." she demanded.

"You don't waste any time, do you?"

"Why waste a minute, when so much of our time was stolen from us, by that obsessed crazy, Heather Webber?"

"Did it ever cross your mind that I might need some recovery time?"

Surely, he hadn't meant it to come out as harshly as it had sounded.

"If poisoning didn't deter you, and if even a double dose of heart attack didn't slow you down, what's a month-long nap in Miscavige?"

"A nap!"

"It was a joke, Luke. Besides, I'll give you a break, this time." she said, playfully, tugging at his clothes. "I'll do all the work. Well, most of it."

"You're not at all shy."

"Oh, come on, Spencer! Since when did you become attracted to the shrinking violet type?" she laughed. "But if that's what you fancy, tonight, I'll play along."

She waited, but he didn't make a move to continue.

"Ooph, someone's cranky." she pressed on, trying to mask confusion.

"With you dressed like that, what do you expect from me? Was that the best you could do?" he asked, seeing that she had come to bed in his old purple shirt.

She stopped, stricken. He had always loved her in that shirt, their souvenir of a May in Vegas, of their beginning. He loved that sometimes she did not fuss over her appearance, or try to be artificially seductive. He had always claimed it was a turn on, when, occasionally, she skipped the rituals of pampering herself.

"Is this better?" she challenged.

When she flung off the purple fabric and stood in the dim bedside light, his gaze remained out of focus. He barely took her in. His eyes did not hold the glimmer of desire and invitation she expected to see. She began to feel self-conscious, and shrank back into the shadows beyond the lamplight, embarrassed. Tracy couldn't remember the last time such an attack had troubled her. She knew when she wasn't wanted—her former husbands had taught her that, too well. It was a heartbreaking brick wall she'd never reached, with Luke, until now. 

She wrapped herself in a green silk kimono, and faced him again, waiting. She wanted, with a sharp longing that swelled in her chest, to be comforted against the strangeness that she glimpsed in his eyes.

"You have no idea what kind of day I've had. I'm tired."

"I had a day, too, Luke."

"I don't know what you want from me."

"Why not? Look at me! This isn't like you. Why are you so... aloof and sullen?" she said, the frost in her voice breaking. "Did they emasculate you, as well as scramble your brain, at that lawless place?"

"Keep your voice down, Tracy." He reached for her, but she avoided him. "I'm sorry, baby. I know I can be difficult, short-tempered. It's the residual effects of-"

"Yes, residual effects of the Polonium cure, and the negative reaction to the drugs from Miscavige. I know all of that. I am not at all impressed."

Silence fell.

"I stupidly thought you'd come home, and life would go back to being as normal as it ever gets, for us."

He watched her for a long moment, deep in thought, perhaps forming a confession that he didn't make.

"I regret that you had to get mixed up in this business, Tracy."

"Mixed up in what?" she demanded, desperation creeping into her voice. 

"All this... from Miscavige." he vaguely replied.

"What was done to you, Luke, was also done to me. This affects us both."

"And I love you for feeling that way about it."

"Love." she said, dully. "You know, at first when you were missing, no one would believe me that there was a cause for worry--not Anna, not Lulu--but I knew--I KNEW they were wrong. But then, time passed, and I doubted myself." Her eyes stung, and, disgusted, she blotted at the moisture in her eyes with her sleeve. "I thought things had started to get too comfortable, and so you just took off again, on some ridiculous, unnecessary so-called adventure. I thought maybe you'd received some mixed smoke signals from Holly, or something equally revolting."

"What have I done to you?"

"As far as I can tell, nothing, yet." she tried to joke, but it fell flat. So much did, lately.

She would strive to go against her nature, and school herself in patience.

"I-I guess I expected too much, too soon." she said, subdued, still hoping to surmount the barrier that separated them.

Luke loved her, of that, she was certain. Soon, they would be married, and would resume the life that they had built, a union interrupted, that they had so tragically abandoned. They should have held on, with everything they possessed, to a life they had both treasured.

"I have a lot of mistakes to atone for, Tracy."

She sighed, heavily, weary of confessions and not wanting to talk, anymore.

"I need a drink, something to help me sleep."

"Stay put. I'll get it." he offered. It was starting to become their nightly ritual, and by the time she had reached the bottom of her glass and was nodding off, Luke had mellowed. He pulled her to him and gave her hip a squeeze. 

The mixture of wine and the sudden shift in Luke's mood revived her craving for a pleasure she'd sorely missed, for the weeks of his absence. Their kisses grew heated and frantic.

"Shh. Don't work yourself up so, woman." he cautioned, all the while inducing her response, whispering into her ear, his hands suddenly on her, hot and insistent and possessive. "All day, I've thought of touching you. Yeah, I did."

With appreciative sounds and the pressure of her touch, she urged him on. Gratefully, she surrendered to the heady cocktail of fatigue and desire. His voice droned on, lulling her, as she fought sleep.

Every morning, Tracy awakened with what felt like a hangover. Nausea gripped her, her skin was clammy with perspiration. She was dizzy for half the morning, her thoughts were disjointed, and her head throbbed. Yet, she hadn't taken excessive drink the night before, she was sure of it.

She shouted for Alice to bring her a pot of coffee.

"It had better be piping hot." she croaked.

"You don't look so good, Miss Tracy." Alice observed, as she put the tray down and began to pour the rich, dark brew into a delicate bone China cup.

"Oh, what a revelation. Thanks for that bit of enlightenment, Alice. Now I don't need a mirror."

"I'd avoid it."

"I have no delusions. Whatever it reflects will be ghastly, I'm sure." Tracy muttered, and opened the morning addition of the newspaper. "Good lord, it says here that another lunatic criminal broke out of that corrupt bughouse, Miscavige. Why there hasn't been a thorough investigation of that hospital, is a question I intend to have answered! That place is a menace to the community. I'm going to see that its licenses are revoked, and its doors are closed, permanently."

"You need breakfast. Fuel for the fight. Some toast, and the orange marmalade you like, and I'll have Cook make you an omelette."

"Fine. Have you seen Luke, this morning?"

"No, but the gardener saw him go out at five o'clock."

"Before sunrise? What on earth for?"

Alice shrugged. Recently, she hadn't indulged in her typical annoying but harmless game of fawning over Luke, and Luke in turn no longer pretended to flirt with the housekeeper--no more expressions of exaggerated gratitude when she merely performed her job, serving him his favorite food and beverage.


	5. 24-Karat Rhinestone

24-Karat Rhinestone

April, 2014

 

"I don't know where he went, Miss Tracy. Maybe he got a lead on that man who tried to kill your nephew."

"Ha!"

"Well, I thought it was brave of Mr. Luke to go after that guy, and-"

"Brave!" Tracy exclaimed. "It was reckless foolery!"

"Mr. Luke is a hero."

"Mr. Luke is an idiot! He could have gotten himself killed! He might have been severely hurt, chasing after that criminal. Luke's still recovering."

"He looks well, to me, Miss Tracy."

"Oh! Who asked you? Get out! You're fired."

"Okay. I'll bring your breakfast, right away."

It was no surprise that Luke should want to spend as little time as possible at the mansion. Home was not the safe place it should be. A masked man had broken into the house and attacked AJ. Then, just weeks later, AJ had been killed at the Jeromes' penthouse; no one seemed to know why he had been there. 

Following AJ's death, Luke had been inexcusably rude and uncharacteristically cruel to Monica. Tracy called him on it, insisting he apologize to her grieving sister-in-law. Tracy forgave Luke, as she habitually forgave his missteps, though she never forgot them. Those who forgot the past were bound to repeat it, and that was especially true, for anyone associated with Luke Spencer.

If not for Luke's presence, she couldn't have endured the pathetic pageant of the funeral, the last indignity the dead are forced to endure. The Quartermaines had seen far too many such days, too many losses, over the last few years.

Monica, of course, was inconsolable.

Ned, arriving in Port Charles for AJ's service, was a ray of light, and a comfort. Then that comfort turned, predictably, to bickering, as he added his two cents into the fray, and then two more, for good measure. He objected vehemently to her marriage plans.

"Mother, you're a Quartermaine. The only connections that transcend money are the ones you have with your family, and then, only on a good day."

The conversations frustrated Tracy. She expected no overt support from family, but of all the Quartermaines, her boy should understand her. He should understand how crucial Luke was, to her well-being.

Even on the day they buried his cousin, Ned couldn't overlook his suspicions of Luke. As if the day wasn't fraught enough, Michael's ditzy, low-class girlfriend, (Fifi, Mimi, or whatever she was called...) came forward with a disgusting, preposterous accusation against Luke. Ned was all too eager to believe it.

Tracy, outraged and insulted, had attempted to defend Luke. Luke would never harass a girl younger than his own daughter!

Ned had dismissed everything Tracy told him about how Luke had changed, and how committed to her he was. The next week, Ned insisted on having their attorney draw up a pre-nuptial agreement.

Luke's resistance to it was a shock. He threatened to call off the wedding. Hurt and bewildered, she backed down. Surely, Luke hadn't forgotten that she had proven her trust in him, in 2010, when she had destroyed the safety net of the last such document he had signed, after their wedding.

Tracy did not permit herself a chance to ponder her own irrational, indistinct suspicions, and she refused to take to heart Ned's objections, but they continued to niggle at the back of her thoughts. Then, one morning as she was applying her makeup, a familiar presence appeared.

Startled, she dropped a silver compact, spilling powder over the marble surface of the vanity table. 

"Oh, isn't it just like you, to show up, NOW."

"You need help now."

"Where have you been, for the last two years, Alan? Last year, you could have told me what AJ was up to, with ELQ. You could have given me the recipe for the damned pickle relish!"

"That wasn't a life-or-death threat to you, Tracy. And thanks for the condolences, about AJ, by the way. So heartfelt."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Really."

"And who says I wasn't here?"

She gave a bark of mirthless laughter.

"Still trying to annoy your way into the light, I see. Well, what is so important now, that prompts you to grace me with your presence?"

"He's pretending, you know." said Alan. 

"Who? Who's pretending?"

"That man to whom you're about to plight your troth."

"And you think that's a life-or-death matter?" she asked, her voice rising an octave, on an incredulous note.

"It may be."

"What do YOU know about matters of life, anymore, Alan? You're dead!"

"Stating the obvious doesn't phase me. You can't insult me into disappearing."

"Did you get bored, out there in the ether? Did you-uh-just fizz to visibility and decide, hmm, I think I'll put some nonsensical notions into Tracy's head, for laughs?"

"Why so touchy, Trace?"

"I've just had enough of the interference from everyone, and I don't need it from someone who's not actually here!"

Something more than fatigue must be wrong with her, if she no longer welcomed the challenge in a Quartermaine squabble.

"You don't know what you're getting into, this time."

"Oh, Alan, I know better than anyone."

He effected a respectful pause, for her statement of fact had been delivered in a rare, calm and earnest mien.

"How many times have you been married? How many times, just to Luke? Surely, the thrill of it has worn off, by now.

Tracy's mischievous laugh rang out, the one that meant she thought she'd gotten the best of someone.

"You're one to talk. How many times did you marry and remarry Monica? You would think my family could be happy for me, just once!"

"It's not the money or ELQ I'm concerned with. The man is a danger, to you. Think, Tracy. He's having memory lapses." 

"Only a few, and there's good reason for that." Tracy argued. "The crime was against him!"

"Crime is his way of life, Tracy. He's a con artist."

"A reprobate." she said, with a smirk.

"Don't you wonder why he's forgotten all of your cute little nicknames?"

"Come up with something better than that, Alan."

"Your skin has that look, again, little sister."

"What? What's wrong with my skin? What look?"

"That desperate look."

"Oh my God! Would you just get out of here?"

"Not a chance."

"You should really visit Monica, if you can. Doesn't tenure in the afterlife provide you with any new skills?"

"Monica isn't about to make a dangerous mistake. You are. You will regret it, Tracy. Don't mistake stubbornness for courage."

In the flurry of activity leading up to and through the nurses' ball, Alan's cryptic warnings faded from her consciousness. 

She enjoyed a weekend excursion to Manhattan, treated herself to a spa day, and did some shopping, putting the sales girls through their paces, and found the perfect dress for the occasion that would prove to be her wedding day.

"You're beautiful." Luke said, fastening her necklace, and kissing the back of her neck, noticing a barely discernible, understated fragrance. "Delicious. Is that a new perfume?"

"Just my usual."

"Well, there will be nothing usual about tonight."

"What are you up to, Luke?"

"Always so suspicious. Just something special, for you, Kitten."

"Kitten." she chuckled. "That's a new one."

"Just a little surprise, but you'll have to wait. No more questions."

"I have a surprise for you, too." she told Luke later, as they were about to leave. "Wait until you see what I bought. Just a little something for our honeymoon trip, for you. For me. It's little and lacy, and...uh-uh-uh," she chastised, teasing. "You'll have to wait, though I may give you a sneak peak, after the nurses' ball, if you're good."

"I can't wait." he said, and some false note, some hint of sarcasm made her feel defeated, foolish, and too old for seductive games.

Luke was lying to her--his best friend and sparring partner--pretending all was well when clearly, it wasn't. His nature had undergone some change that was getting more difficult to ignore. 

"What is wrong with you, Luke? I keep asking, and you keep evading me."

"Nothing, Tracy. For the hundredth time, nothing is wrong!" he insisted.

"You run hot and cold, and I don't know where I stand with you, from one day to the next."

"It's all in your imagination."

Once, Luke had joked that she had a hard shell, and beneath it another, and beneath that, mush. Not a poetic description, to be sure, but true. Of late, his skill of knowing her and how to break through that shell had faltered, and she was losing heart and the courage, just now, to pursue the topic of their discord. She began to feel like an observer, watching herself,  
noting her reactions. 

In the past, Luke relished matching wits, and their playful banter could go on for days. His confidence was a joy, his humor, and enthusiasm. She adored his willingness to go to great lengths to prove his love, to prove his desire and to spark hers. Luke was master of the build up. He would happily hold her for hours, sway with her in a seductive dance of honeyed words and touch and romance that he could draw out, all night, if necessary, until she was languidly willing to do, promise or confess anything, or until she was ready for sleep. It was Luke's form of magic, the only true bliss with which life had gifted her. 

Lately, their infrequent lovemaking was initiated by Tracy. It had taken on a mechanical quality, rushed, lust indulged in an alcoholic haze, a murky elicit fumble which lacked intimacy and left her less than thoroughly satisfied. The other aspects of their relationship began to mirror it. 

"Well," said Monica, "Leave it to you, Tracy. You certainly know how to make an impression!"

"I had no idea Luke planned this. I expected we'd get married on a cruise, maybe... or maybe not."

"But you are happy, aren't you?" Luke asked.

"You know I am. I was just taken aback. You excel at grand gestures, but the follow-through is something else."

"My follow-through is legendary, sweetheart." he said, kissing his bride.

"Oh, really! Haven't the two of you done the wedding and honeymooning bit a little too often, to make such a spectacle of yourselves?"

"If that's not the pot calling the kettle black, I don't know what is." Tracy chuckled. "Stay, and have a glass of champagne with us."


End file.
